First up, Yemeni national called Imad Yussef Hakim, age twenty-three, connected to al-Qaeda and other Islamic groups, traveling with—
A Russian national believed to be dead. Who certainly wasn’t. Jesus.
Vladimir Zhukov.
And then Blythe saw his background and—
She opened a side drawer so hard that people around her craned their heads in her direction to see what was going on. In the drawer, sitting alone, was a thin folder, bound by a red paper ribbon. She lifted up the folder, broke the paper seal, and opened it. Her hands were shaking. She had never opened this type of folder before, except during training, so many innocent months ago.
Blythe flipped open the thin red cardboard cover. A single sheet was stapled inside with three instructions:
DENOTE DATE AND TIME OF WATCH LIST MATCH.
With a black Bic pen, she did just that.
CONTACT EXTENSION 4444.
She picked up the phone, dialed the four digits.
IDENTIFY YOURSELF AND REPORT STATUS TO OPERATOR.
A bored young man’s voice: ‘This is Operator Four-four-four-four.’
‘This is Blythe Coonrod, Redmond Station. I have a Watch List match.’
‘Your monitor identification?’
She peered at the letter and number sequence embossed on the sleek black plastic case.
‘Four one two, B as in Bob, C as in Charlie.’
‘Repeating, four one two, B as in Bob, C as in Charlie.’
‘Correct.’
The man said, ‘Remain at your station, please. You’ll be contacted in sixty seconds or less for follow-up. Understood?’
‘Understood.’
The man hung up. So did Blythe.
She folded her arms. She suddenly no longer had the urge to go to the bathroom.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
It was early morning in Memphis, and Brian Doyle sat alone, back in his room, sipping a cup of coffee, watching the hazy early-morning sunshine over the Mississippi River. He felt tired and flat and tangled up. What had happened last night with Adrianna had happened, and he didn’t feel guilty about it. Not at all. It had been nice and delightful and tasty and all that good stuff. But what was pissing him off was what had happened about an hour ago. The woman had woken up in a panic, like she had realized that instead of bedding Mr Right she had bedded Mr My-God-I-Can’t-Believe-What-I’ve-Done.
So Adrianna had bustled him out of her room, thoughts of having breakfast together put aside, thoughts about what he had said about his dad put aside, his demand to be sent back to New York put aside. All put aside. Hell, even what he had going on for today: put aside. As he had left Adrianna had called out, ‘Take the day off, Brian. I’ve got other meetings with the General and his people… please, take some time.’
Which was a pretty clear message. Brian had fulfilled his duty earlier, with Adrianna using his father’s death to score points with the General, and to get the General and his company to sign on for Final Winter.
Duty.
He went over to his luggage, picked up a carry-on case. It was locked and he put in the combination, popped it open, and from inside he took out a file folder. Presented to him a few days ago by the good colonel, the Director of the Tiger Teams. A peek into Adrianna Scott’s life and background. Part of his job with the Tiger Team, part of his secret duty.
Brian held the file in his hand. He’d remembered earlier that he was going to review this file once Final Winter was done and over, and that had made sense at the time. But now…What the hell, if Adrianna had told him to take the day off, then what was he going to do today? Go to Graceland? Stay here and watch soaps and order room service?
He went over to a small round wooden table, sat down, opened the file and started to read.
In Maryland, Montgomery Zane was in the small kitchen area near the conference room, which was next to the offices for his fellow Tiger Team members. The damn place was empty, with the Princess, the cop and the doc out on a run to Memphis, and the code-puzzler not having shown up yet. Which was fine, since lots of times the Tiger Team members kept to their own lives and schedules and long ago, coming in, he had reserved the right to go on special missions without much oversight from the Princess. Like his recent adventures overseas, triggered only by pager and text messages from those who had the power. No big deal.
Monty poured himself coffee in a big mug that had Seal Team Six and the trident-and-eagle insignia of the Navy Seals glazed onto it. He leaned against the counter, wondered about what to do next, which was a very big deal. In his old units, having something squirrelly come up just meant going to your CO about what was what. And what Bravo Tom had told him yesterday had kept him up for most of the night. If such a heavy shit-storm was heading their way in just a couple more weeks, then why was Bravo Tom going on leave? Why was his unit involved in nothing more arduous than the usual deployment and training schedule? What in hell was going on?
He took a swallow from his mug and looked up and saw that an answer to what was going on had just come into the kitchen.
Victor Palmer sat in his hotel room, staring at the locked case on the table. The cable was once more connected to his wrist. Adrianna was coming over to pick him up, to head over to the AirBox facilities to brief the General and his head machinist over what they were going to do with the dreamy little canisters that Victor’s crew had thought up, and his stomach churned at what was going to happen in just a few short days. The whole idea of the terrorists slipping past the border with their little plastic containers of anthrax was still esoteric to Victor’s mind. This, the canister in the metal case at his side, this was real. It was something that he could touch and feel. It was going to happen and what was going to happen sickened him.
It was easy enough to think of what was out there. Thousands upon thousands of innocents… slumbering in their beds, hanging on to some sort of life in hospital rooms or hostels, the very young, the very old, the very sick…thousands for sure, and each one of them counted, each one of them was cared for and loved and had a life and history…
Thousands upon thousands.
All up until that night in the future, when the aircraft of their nation would take off in the middle of the night, and silently and secretly descend upon their cities and homes, spraying out something invisible to the eye. And in a matter of weeks they would all be dead.
Thousands upon thousands.
And Victor had helped it along.
My God, he thought, his stomach spasming and rolling: this is what it must have been like to have been a medical officer at Auschwitz or Birkenau or Bergen-Belsen…this is what it must have been like to have the fate of thousands in your hands, and to wash yourself of concern about it, to leave it alone, because it was your duty. It was what had to be done. The few sacrificed for the many. Work will make you free. The lies of the ages.
My God. How could he go through with this?
He picked up the case, headed for the door. He wouldn’t, that was how. He would walk out and run away, and maybe the Final Winter project would go on, but it would go on without him, and wouldn’t Doc Savage be proud of what he was doing, to face up to evil and to fight it and—
Victor’s hand was on the doorknob. All right, let’s be honest, now. We’re not facing evil. We’re not even fighting it. We’re just running away, and that’s all we can do and—